


I Hope You Like Ponies

by SunriseSeaMonster



Category: ONEWE (Band)
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Idiots in Love, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Poetry, Shetland, Slow Burn, Yonghoon-centric, crummy weather, insular life in more ways than one tbh, neurological condition (side character), subarctic island life, technically a café AU if you squint?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:33:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26568841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunriseSeaMonster/pseuds/SunriseSeaMonster
Summary: He grips the railing tightly, convinced that this must be a dream – this orange camper van, this blond man standing next to him in a purple hoodie, this excited woman with braided hair telling him about a pod of orca as though it were a completely normal human experience for a Korean city-dweller to have.Moments like these, Yonghoon remembers why he’s a poet._____Or: Yonghoon falls in love with Hyungu in the Shetland Islands, because these are lawless times and I write what I want.
Relationships: Jin Yonghoon/Kang Hyungu | Kanghyun
Comments: 84
Kudos: 49





	1. Welcome to Shetland

**Author's Note:**

> Yay, leader line. <3
> 
> (oh, I guess I should mention that there's talk of motion sickness in the first chapter. I promise this won't be an underlying motif or anything!)

This isn’t Yonghoon’s finest hour.

The thin blanket feels misaligned around him, folded crookedly under one underarm, and he feels a strong swell of regret swimming along with everything else in his stomach.

He shouldn’t have eaten mushroom stroganoff for dinner, its rich creaminess sliding heavily down his throat. He certainly shouldn’t have eaten as much as he did, idly shoveling forkful after forkful into his face as he reviewed the paperwork for his new job. Honestly, he probably shouldn’t have eaten anything, not a single thing. He just wasn’t thinking, not even a little bit. The ferry had still been docked safely, then, its faint bobbing motions in the harbor so slight that Yonghoon didn’t think ahead, at all.

He realizes now that he should have known not to eat much at the start of this overnight journey. Hell, even back in Korea, he’d read all about the North Sea being home to some of the roughest shipping seas in the world. The high-speed ferry in which he suffers now tumbles back and forth, up and down, and side to side like some sort of demonic rubber duck caught in an enthusiastic child’s bathtub waves. 

Prior to tonight, Yonghoon hadn’t even known there could _be_ this many dimensions for his stomach to roll and tumble, to heave and bounce. 

He’s never gotten motion sick before, but this new hell is seriously pushing the boundaries of his fortitude. 

He faintly remembers reading that it’s worse in winter. It’s mid-May; he cannot even imagine what _worse_ than this would feel like.

Yonghoon takes a moment to feel thankful for the advice to always book an inner berth. Sure, it means sacrificing ocean views, but in these conditions, he suspects he wouldn’t see much beyond chaotic spray against a salt-encrusted porthole, anyway.

As he rolls over in his bunk, he pulls the blanket closer to him, trying to straighten its awkward angles around his long legs. 

He tries his best to sleep. 

He’s fortunate in at least one regard; no other travelers booked a berth in this room. Now, he’s able to groan and sigh, rearrange his bedding to his heart’s desire. 

Still, sleep doesn’t come. 

It’s just past 3 o’clock in the morning when Yonghoon gives up. He slithers out of the bunk, throws on jeans, a thicker shirt, and a weatherproof jacket. He checks to make sure he has the key for the room, then opens the door, blinking blearily into the artificial lighting. 

It’s nothing compared to the sunlight that greets him as he makes his way to an upper deck. He’s never experienced anything like this: full, white sunlight, hazed over only by the humid mist, before 4 o’clock in the morning. 

Not that it’s warm, for all this luminescent sunlight beaming directly into his tired, squinting eyes. _In Shetland_ , he remembers reading, _Summer doesn’t mean **hot**. Summer just means you can set your heater to a lower setting._

At least the ferry isn’t swaying so much anymore. Yonghoon thinks they’ve slowed down a little; just as he’s about to ask one of the ferry’s crewmembers about it, he looks to his right – and does a doubletake. 

There, startlingly close – _like an iceberg_ , his tired brain fills in for him – is an island. Its sheer cliff edges glow pale in the bright sun, steep walls tumbling magnificently down to the ocean. Along the top ridges, Yonghoon sees bright green. Grass, he supposes, gawping at the sight of the vertical face of rock against the glittering blue ocean. It almost looks as though the sea cliff were vibrating, and he questions his own mental faculties before realizing that the cliff is covered in seabirds. Thousands upon thousands of birds, so close that it looks as though the cliff itself might be alive, pulsing, with a haze of white paper confetti swirling off the island cliff face.

All of the passengers on this level are chattering excitedly, most with expensive looking cameras in hand. “Fair Isle!” they tell each other, naming different bird species with increasingly vocal excitement. Apparently there are a lot of birdwatchers on the ferry. _Well, fair enough_ , he thinks. Beyond seabird tourism, why else would people visit Shetland? Certainly not the weather. 

Fair Isle is a small island, and as soon as they’ve cleared its waters, the ferry begins to speed up again. Not by much, but Yonghoon is still relieved to find that he’s becoming used to the rolling motion underneath him, the gravity buckling and bending as the North Sea expresses its utter disregard for the vessel plowing its surface. 

Feeling somewhat refreshed by the sight of green-topped Fair Isle and its bird-covered sea cliffs, Yonghoon makes his way a touch unsteadily back to his berth. 

This time, he falls asleep.

_____ 

Harin, the man the Shetland Arts Council arranged to pick Yonghoon up from the ferry terminal at 7:30 this morning, turns out to be a tallish man with friendly eyes and a well-worn black leather jacket. 

“You’re even taller than I am!” says Harin, after they’ve greeted each other. “I’m not sure why, but I somehow pictured a poet to be…” He pauses, suddenly looking a little embarrassed. 

“You thought poets are short?” Yonghoon laughs. “I’ve heard all sorts of things when I tell people what I do for a living, but that’s a new one.”

Harin shrugs, grinning as he hoists Yonghoon’s luggage into a small, blue car. “I guess most of the people in the arts scene here are short, or something. Like the Trouble Twins. I dunno!” 

“The Trouble Twins?” Yonghoon asks. 

Harin waits until they’re both seated and buckled in before responding. “Yeah, it’s just a silly nickname for two of the other Korean guys here in town. There’s not a lot of us. Unless someone’s hiding in a croft or in some village on one of the smaller islands, you’ll be the fifth one! We all know each other. It’s… kind of a small place.”

“Yeah, I kinda got that already,” says Yonghoon. “But ‘Trouble Twins’ sounds a little ominous – are you telling me two of the four of you are up to no good?” 

Harin grins. “Oh, they’re not that bad. Just mischievous, really. Dongmyeong is a fiddle prodigy and singer. He’s here on a Shetland Arts fellowship, like you, so you’ll probably see a lot of each other. Giwook is his best friend who followed him here from Korea. He’s a good musician in his own right – bass, mostly, though he produces some rap tracks also.” 

Yonghoon wants to ask about the rap music – Shetland doesn’t really seem like that kind of scene – but his breath hitches as the car crests over a hill, revealing an amazing view of Lerwick harbor and islands beyond it. 

Harin catches his reaction. “Pretty, isn’t it? Catch it now, while we have sun! It rains over 300 days a year here, and most of the other 65 are either overcast or so foggy you can’t see two meters in front of you.” 

“It’s beautiful,” exhales Yonghoon. 

Harin pulls the car off the road slightly and puts it in neutral. “You want to get out and snap some pictures? I’m telling you, this is a rare sight.” 

“Yeah,” breathes Yonghoon. “Yeah, I… thank you, that would be amazing.” 

He exits the car and snaps a few shots on his phone. In one picture, he captures what looks to be a far-away lighthouse on a neighboring island. 

“That’s Bressay,” says Harin, following Yonghoon’s gaze. “Not much going on, but they have a decent little inn that serves nice dinners. You can take the ferry across and back, doesn’t take long at all.” 

Yonghoon takes a couple more pictures before suddenly feeling the exhaustion of his travel and sleep deprivation settle into his bones. As he gets back into Harin’s car, it’s all he can do to stay awake for the rest of the short ride to his new home for the next year. 

He gladly accepts Harin’s offer of assistance with his bags, as his apartment is up a flight of stairs from the street level.

“Okay, well, you have my contact details; let me know if you need anything before tomorrow morning!” 

“Thank you, Harin!” Yonghoon says. “I’ll be alright; I’ll probably just pass out and sleep for a million hours, honestly.” 

“Fair!” Harin looks sympathetic. “It’s been a while since I made the journey home, but it’s well over 24 hours of travel, right?” Yonghoon nods. “Yeah, that’s rough. Well, get some rest, and I’ll swing by tomorrow morning!” 

Once the door has clicked shut behind Harin, Yonghoon takes a moment to look around his new apartment. It’s a cozy one-bedroom apartment. Nothing spectacular, but clean and in good repair. And – he can hardly believe it – there’s a view of the ocean from his new kitchen window. 

_That view would cost a fortune in Korea_ , he thinks. _Probably my first and second-born children._

An assortment of basic foodstuffs has been set on the kitchen counter – bread, jam, and a few other tidbits. The Shetland Arts Council must have provided this as a welcome present. 

He pokes at a small envelope; sure enough, it’s a note of welcome from his new employers, the Arts Council.

Yonghoon brushes his teeth and sinks into the clean sheets on his new bed. He has just enough time to feel gratitude for the miracle of furnished residences before sleep pulls him under, visions of sea cliffs and seabirds swirling in his dreams. 

He awakens in the afternoon and decides to traipse to the convenience store around the corner before it closes. 

Unsure what to make of the alien landscape of its crowded shelves, he buys a few drinks and a jar of something called lime pickle. He guesses it’s probably the closest local equivalent to the citrus tea blend he buys in Korea.

When he gets back home, he stays awake long enough to discover, with a horrified puckering of his lips, that lime pickle is in fact nothing at all like jarred citrus tea blends. 

He wolfs down a slice of bread with the jam from his welcome present, then sinks quickly back to sleep.

_____ 

Jet lag snaps like a rubber band in Yonghoon’s brain, and he wakes with a startled gasp. It’s the middle of the night – he thinks, anyway. It’s hard to tell, in the murky half-light of a not-fully-set sun.

He’s going to need some blackout curtains. These subpolar latitudes are not, it seems, fucking around.

_____ 

Harin knocks on the door at 9 in the morning, and Yonghoon welcomes him groggily inside, one eyelid stuck more closed than the other, even after his shower. 

“You might want to bring a good jacket,” Harin says, watching Yonghoon put on his shoes. “Fog’s rolling in.” His mouth quirks in an apologetic half-smile. “Like I said, the sun doesn’t last long around here.”

Yonghoon nods. He’s tired and hungry enough that he currently doesn’t trust his metabolism to keep him warm, anyway.

Sure enough, as they walk to breakfast, a dense, silvery gray cloud rolls in from the ocean, its thick fog nearly an opaque wall. 

“This is crazy!” says Yonghoon. “That side of the street is clear,” and he points to his left, “But this one, I can hardly see the front doors of the houses!” 

“It _is_ crazy, right?” agrees Harin. “I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to it.” 

The buildings along the street are not picturesque. Rather, they look… a little bleak, really. The macadam and concrete faces are clearly designed for durability in the harsh climate, not ornamental beauty.

They arrive at a café. _The Peerie Draatsi_ is written on the front door.

Yonghoon pauses and looks at Harin. He points to the name of the café. “What does that mean?” Yonghoon’s English is excellent, but he’s stumped by this one. 

“You know… I’m not sure!” admits Harin. “I know ‘peerie’ means small; you’ll hear that word a lot. But I just… I dunno, The Peerie Draatsi is just the name of the café, to me. I’d never really stopped to consider it. My English has gotten a lot better in the last few years, but this might be Shetland dialect. Well, we can ask Hyungu.” He opens the door for Yonghoon. 

“Hyungu?” Yonghoon asks as they step inside, warm humid air immediately fogging up his glasses. Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised that Harin picked a café where a Korean works. “Wait, is he one of the Trouble Twins? I can’t remember their names – ” 

“I should hope not!” chuckles a soft voice. A Korean voice. “Don’t lump me in with those two.”

Yonghoon tries to see the speaker through his foggy glasses but can only really tell that the man is blond. 

“You must be Hyungu,” says Yonghoon, wiping his glasses on the hem of his shirt, exchanging one form of blurred vision for another. 

“Nice to meet you,” says Hyungu. He pauses only slightly before saying, “You can sit wherever you like.” He nods, then walks to the back of the café, presumably in the direction of the kitchen. 

Harin and Yonghoon choose a table in the window, overlooking the cobblestones. 

Yonghoon tries to make sense of the menu items. “What is coronation chicken?” he asks. 

Harin thinks for a second. “I guess the best way to describe it would be chicken chunks covered in a curried mayonnaise sauce. With little bits of fruit in it, too.”

It sounds revolting; Yonghoon turns his attention to other options.

He focuses fully on trying to figure out which of the many unfamiliar food choices to order, so the sudden appearance of a person right at their table startles Yonghoon into knocking his elbow against his silverware with a surprisingly loud crash.

He looks up from the table to see the most beautiful young man he’s seen in a long, long time. His giant, sparkling brown eyes peek out from a bleached blond fringe, and his plush lower lip quivers suspiciously, as though he might be trying not to laugh. 

“You must be Hyungu,” says Yonghoon, for the second time. Like an idiot. An absolute idiot. 

His dislodged spoon clatters to the floor like a punctuation mark to his embarrassment. 

“Yes,” says Hyungu. He looks at the spoon on the ground, then picks it up. “I’ll get you a new one. Are you ready to order?”

Yonghoon panics. “I’ll have the coronation chicken sandwich, please.” 

The silence of Harin and Hyungu’s stares is broken only by the metallic clattering of Yonghoon’s dislodged fork falling to the ground, apparently leaping off the table in a tragic attempt to join its spoon friend. 

Fuck. So much for good first impressions.


	2. Boy Meets Island

“I can’t believe you like coronation chicken,” says Harin, frowning into the last dregs of his coffee. His hand shakes with a small tremor.

Yonghoon laughs lightly and leans back in his chair. “You made it sound super gross, but it’s alright. Better than the stuff I tried yesterday – lime pickle? Yeah, don’t try making it into a drink.” 

“You tried to do _what_ with lime pickle?” Harin’s face goes slack in disbelief. He sets the coffee mug gently down on the table.

“Listen,” Yonghoon is indignant. “How was I supposed to know it was so different from the yuja-cha back home?” 

“Wow, well… that was a choice.” Harin chuckles. “I guess we’re going to have to introduce you to some better local food. Shetland’s not what you might call a culinary hotspot, though.”

Harin’s voice isn’t loud, but the space is small, so the sound travels far enough to reach Hyungu. “I heard that!” he calls out, from his menu station at the door. “You knocking our food, Harin?” 

“Don’t be such a stick in the mud!” retorts Harin, but Hyungu’s eyes are twinkling. His amusement illuminates his striking face, and Yonghoon feels his own breath catch mid-throat. 

“Ready to go?” asks Harin, reaching for his jacket, apparently oblivious to Yonghoon’s internal struggle. 

Yonghoon collects his thoughts and says goodbye to Hyungu with some semblance of dignity. He hopes, anyway. 

As they walk down the cobblestone street, Harin tells Yonghoon, “The Arts Council planned us a whole itinerary for the next few days. I’m guessing you saw it, right?” 

“I did, thank you! It’s… comprehensive,” says Yonghoon. The Council staff tailormade an intensive _Get-to-Know-Shetland_ packet for him and emailed it to him as a PDF. 

“No kidding!” laughs Harin. “I saw that they want me to take you basically everywhere in the space of a few days. It feels like the itinerary features every museum, overlook, and bus stop in the Shetland Islands.” 

“I saw the bus stop! What’s that about, anyway?” 

Harin’s eyes turn mischievous. “You’ll see. But anyway, what I was going to suggest is that we might make some detours, instead – based on what most interests you – and then anything we don’t get to in the next few days, you can see on your own time. You’re here for a year, right?”

“Right.” Yonghoon hears the relief in his voice. It did look like a rather… assertive itinerary. “I wouldn’t mind if we loosened up the schedule a little.”

“Great! So what are you most interested in seeing? Do you have any preferences?” 

Yonghoon hesitates. “Well, I’m not sure, really.” He thinks for a second as Harin pauses on the sidewalk. “I guess… I’ve been in Seoul for so long now that just being around nature was half the appeal of applying for this fellowship. So yeah. Um… nature.” 

Harin nods. “We’re pretty much surrounded by nature!” He considers Yonghoon’s request a moment, then asks, “Tell you what, do you want to see the trees?” 

“Which trees?” Yonghoon is confused.

“ _The_ trees! The only true grove of trees in all of Shetland!” 

The laugh bubbles easily out of Yonghoon. “There’s only one grove of trees? Out of how many islands? Sure! Let’s go see it. Let’s go see _the_ trees.” 

As they’re walking to Harin’s car, Yonghoon asks, “So how did you end up here, anyway? What do you do when you’re not chauffeuring poets around the islands?” 

“Those are two very different questions,” Harin says. “It might take me a while to answer both. But if you’re really interested, it looks like we’ve got some time in the car together, for the next few days!” 

“I don’t want to pry,” Yonghoon says quickly, wondering whether his curiosity might be a little too forward, given he just met this man yesterday.

“Oh, no, I don’t mind.” Harin shrugs, then smiles as he unlocks his small blue hatchback. “Makes a change from just talking to myself or the sheep all day! I’ll tell you all about it.” 

True to his word, as the little blue car crests hill after hill of rolling sheep fields, dipping in between fingers of ocean water (“Voes,” Harin says, “These little inlets are called voes, here”), Yonghoon hears all about the younger man’s journey to Shetland life. 

“So then, after I’d been deep-sea diving off the oil rig for a few years, you know, doing repair work on the rig and oil lines on the sea floor, I started to develop neurological issues,” says Harin. “Small tremors, occasional loss of balance, that sort of thing.” 

“Wow,” breathes Yonghoon. “I’m sorry to hear that.” 

“Eh, it’s fine.” Harin looks and sounds calm about it. “I mean, it’s not actually fine; it sucks, you know? But to be honest, we all know the risks. Most of my deep-sea diving buddies have neurological problems of their own. I’m really lucky that mine are mild. I can still drive, which is more than many people can say.” 

“That’s so nuts,” says Yonghoon. “So then what, you quit diving and came here?” 

“Yeah,” says Harin. “I –”

But before he can continue his thought, Yonghoon gasps so dramatically that Harin’s grip on the steering wheel wobbles, and not because of a tremor. 

“PONIES!” says Yonghoon, bringing his hands to his face in astonishment. 

There – fuzzy heads poking questioningly over the fence – are living, breathing, beautiful Shetland ponies. 

“I didn’t know they were just, like, out here in the open, on the side of the road!” Yonghoon can’t contain his excitement. 

“Oh, for sure! Real live ponies!” says Harin. “But, uh, next time maybe don’t gasp like that, okay? I nearly swerved into the fence. Then we would have had to ride the ponies home, I guess.” 

“Sorry!” says Yonghoon. “They’re so beautiful! And… and bigger than I thought.”

Something about his tone of voice must alert Harin. “Are you afraid of them?” 

“Maybe a little,” admits Yonghoon. “I’m not great with dogs, either. They just kind of freak me out a bit. But they look nice from the safety of the inside of this car!” 

“That’s understandable,” says Harin. “Hey, you got your notebook and camera handy?” 

“Yeah, why?” 

“We’re about to get to the trees!”

The small grove is just as small and unimpressive as Yonghoon had imagined. He loves it.

Their next few days pass like this: breakfast at The Peerie Draatsi (Yonghoon already mentally calls it “Hyungu’s café,” although the infuriatingly handsome young Korean is not the owner), followed by Shetland exploration. They pack lunches, then drive across miles of desolate, foggy fields, traversing most of the largest island in Shetland ( _“Why’s it called Mainland? If this island is Mainland, what do they call the actual mainland of Scotland?” “It’s also called_ Mainland. _Don’t look at me like that; I didn’t come up with it!”_ ). 

By the time Harin’s official time as tour guide is up, Yonghoon realizes he’s going to miss the twinkly-eyed diver and his easygoing approach to island life. 

“This has been a lot of fun,” he tells Harin, as they sit on an overlook, watching seals on the rocky shoreline slip into the cold, calm sea. “I can’t wait to get back to writing, of course – and I’m looking forward to the Thursday night poetry discussions I’ll be hosting – but this has been a fantastic introduction to the islands. Thank you so much.” 

Harin shrugs. “I mean, the Council only paid me through today, but I’m happy to hang out, as friends! It’s fun seeing the place through a newcomer’s eyes again.” Just as Yonghoon is about to pounce on the implied offer, Harin adds, “But I’m going to be busy the next few months. I’m trying to get into the wind farm energy business, and I’ve got meetings planned and business proposals to write. But y’know…” He squints thoughtfully. “You should talk to Hyungu! He bought himself an old camper van a while back – the kind with the bunk that pops out the roof – and I know he’s been dying to make better use of it. He’s been talking about driving it up to the islands of Yell and Unst, seeing some proper midnight sun.” 

Before Yonghoon can think of a proper reply, Harin grins, then adds, “Besides, he says he’s not bored, but I’ve caught him cleaning the same stack of menus for 20 minutes at a time. You should get in touch with him!” 

Yonghoon nods. “Maybe I’ll do that.” Yeah. Sure. _Maybe._

Harin extracts his phone. “Here, I’ll send you his number. Just text him whenever! He hasn’t been on the island for all that long; he stayed out on the rig for a while after I’d left.” 

“Yeah?” Yonghoon tries to even out his voice. “Was he also working as a deep-sea diver?” 

“Oh, no.” Harin chuckles. “He worked in the radio operations team, although people used to try to rope him into helping with all sorts of issues they thought were related. Sound isn’t working in the movie room? Call Hyungu! Can’t figure out why your satellite phone is glitching? Call Hyungu! He used to grumble about it all the time.” 

Yonghoon entertains a mental image of a younger Hyungu, scrambling to solve random technical problems while learning English at the same time. He feels a wave of sympathy and admiration for Hyungu’s intelligence and adaptability. 

They say their goodbyes on the gray sidewalk outside Yonghoon’s apartment, and Yonghoon feels the fog approaching from behind his back before he sees it. 

_____ 

One of the stipulations of Yonghoon’s poetry fellowship is his commitment to hosting a weekly poetry seminar and discussion. He’s confident in his English skills – that’s how he was selected for the fellowship, after all, by submitting English poetry samples – but culturally? Well, he’s about to find out. 

The Council has arranged for the poetry seminars to take place in a small meeting room, which is located inside the town’s Leisure Centre building. Most of Yonghoon’s English teachers have been North American, so he’s startled to learn that a Leisure Centre is less like a bar and more like a fitness center. There’s even a large, indoor pool within the facility. 

Tonight is the first Thursday poetry seminar, and he finishes arranging his materials just in time to greet a few early arrivals. They greet him politely, then chat amongst each other with increasing volume as more people arrive. It’s a diverse mix of ages, seemingly from all walks of life, and he clocks two young, Asian faces in the group. 

By the time he begins, there are about twenty eager attendees. 

“Welcome!” he says, once he’s quieted them all down with a few hand motions. “Please, take a seat, and we’ll begin with introductions.” 

The crowd settles into the chairs, arranged into rows behind long tables. 

“Thank you!” continues Yonghoon. “My name is Jin Yonghoon; please feel free to call me Yonghoon. I am honored to be this year’s Shetland Arts Council Poetry Fellow, and I thank you all for attending our first weekly poetry seminar! You all are probably more familiar with this building than I am, so I won’t tell you where to find the bathrooms or emergency exits or anything. It’s more likely that you’ll have to help me find my way, if you don’t want me wandering into the pool by accident. If I’m ever gone longer than a few minutes, please come find me! Or just send me your poetry addressed to the pool, I guess, and I’ll answer from the water as best I can…” 

There are a few appreciative giggles from his audience. 

“I’d like to start each week by reading one of my own poems – but something rejected, something I decided not to publish,” says Yonghoon. “That way, we can hopefully encourage each other to be fearless in sharing our writing, without dwelling on how ‘good’ or ‘worthy’ any of it is.” 

A few of the attendees exchange surprised glances. 

“Besides, then you can go home and say, ‘If that moron got published, so can I!’” He grins. 

This time, the laughter is more vocal. 

“We’ll discuss my poem, take a short tea and coffee break, and then we’ll open the floor to all of your contributions and works in progress. Sound good?” 

The murmurs of agreement sound enthusiastic and genuine. 

Yonghoon reads them one of his worst poems, a truly terrible work about having neither money nor a boyfriend. Every stanza ends with “No money, no boyfriend!” – and by the end of the poem’s recitation, the room is chanting the refrain right along with him, cheering and laughing. 

He follows the poem’s recitation with a group discussion on which parts of the poem actually work and which deserve to be tucked away, never to be shared again.

By the time they break for drinks and to use the facilities, the mood in the room is crackling with energy. 

The two young men he’d clocked earlier come up to him and bow, saying their hellos in Korean. 

“I’m Dongmyeong,” says the young man with mischievous eyes and a sunny, dimpled smile. 

“And I’m Giwook,” adds the man next to him, his many earrings jangling merrily against each other. 

“Delighted to meet you two!” says Yonghoon. “You must be…” He hesitates. 

“Don’t you dare say it,” warns Dongmyeong. 

“It’s not true,” agrees Giwook, turning slightly to face Dongmyeong. 

“We didn’t come up with it, and it’s totally unfair,” adds Dongmyeong, also turning inward toward his friend.

“Just because they don’t know how to have fun, ever…” starts Giwook.

“… doesn’t mean we need to be party poopers, too!” finishes Dongmyeong. 

“And even if we do sometimes find ourselves in tricky situations, through absolutely no fault of our own, they shouldn’t hold it against us!” Giwook isn’t even pretending to address Yonghoon anymore, holding eye contact with Dongmyeong, who nods along enthusiastically. 

“And sure, we’re almost exactly the same age, but we’re so different! The T-word doesn’t apply; we’re not even like brothers!” says Dongmyeong. 

“Yeah!” cries Giwook. “They should be grateful that we’re here to liven things up sometimes!” 

“Like the time we liberated Harin of his car and bravely ensured he would get more exercise walking to work the next morning!”

“And the time we saved Hyungu from a boring weekend spent _reading_ , instead of going clubbing with us until he was so drunk he cried over the toilet!”

They give each other an enthusiastic high-five, the sound ringing throughout the small meeting room.

It’s only then that they seem to remember Yonghoon’s presence. 

“Uh, so, welcome to Shetland,” says Dongmyeong. 

“Charmed, I’m sure,” says Yonghoon, unable to hold his laughter in any longer. 

Once he’s gathered his breath, he asks them the first of many questions he has for these two. “Did you say you went _clubbing?_ Is there even that kind of club in Shetland?” 

“Yeah,” answers Dongmyeong. “Nothing huge, obviously, but it has music, it has alcohol, it’s got a roof to keep out rain and walls to keep out sheep. Pretty exciting, huh? We’ll take you there soon, don’t worry.”

Yonghoon can’t keep the laughter out of his voice as he calls everyone back to their seats.

Trouble Twins, indeed. He doesn’t doubt they’ve earned the name – not for one second.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shetland is famous for two things above all else: ponies and wool. 
> 
> Some genius came up with a tourism campaign featuring real Shetland ponies wearing sweaters made of real Shetland wool, and it's [one of the cutest things I've ever seen in my life](https://mymodernmet.com/visit-scotland-shetland-ponies-in-sweaters/)!


	3. Orange

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note I'll be updating tags as we go. Keep an eye on those, maybe? Thank you!

The weeks pass, and Yonghoon settles into a new normal: breakfast at The Peerie Draatsi (alone, usually, these days), writing at home until lunchtime, taking a break to eat whatever he’s been able to scrounge up ( _Shetland’s not a culinary hotspot_ , after all). Then, weather permitting, a walk on the rocky shoreline, and – weather even more generously permitting – looking across the water at the neighboring islands, wondering what Celtic, Viking, or Pictish mysteries imbue these subarctic rocks. Dinner (alone again, usually), followed by a quiet but eerily illuminated night of restless sleep. 

He still needs to get some blackout curtains, but the sunny-night delirium feels good, in its own way. Yonghoon doesn’t drink, but he suspects that the feeling is a little akin to what brings other writers to put pen to paper when they’re inebriated. It feels, maybe, like a momentary lifting of the consciousness that too often pins his words to the ground – the way his stomach lurches and floats, weightless, in a car cresting a hill too quickly, too steeply. 

The solitude isn’t ideal, however. Yonghoon has lived his whole life as a social butterfly, laughter bubbling easily into every conversation he has with those around him. The absence of daily contact with friends or acquaintances gnaws at him, a small scrape at some phantom organ he didn’t know he had.

He debates reaching out to the Trouble Twins for companionship, but it sounds as though most of their social life, like that of most Shetlanders, revolves around drinking. Yonghoon is just not yet ready to address the particular topic of his abstinence from alcohol. He sees them every Thursday, learning that Giwook has a natural knack for writing verse, but doesn’t let himself take them up on their invitations to go out clubbing. They tease him, call him old – and he laughs, accepts their jibes.

Not yet. Soon, he thinks. Soon. 

Maybe.

Harin, true to his word, makes time to hang out occasionally, never noticing – or if he notices, never commenting – that Yonghoon casually declines any offer of beer or whisky. 

It’s not until June that Yonghoon summons the courage to ask Hyungu about his camper van. 

June, and the sun spends even more time shamelessly occupying a sliver of sky at insane times of the day. 

June, and the fog occasionally clears to reveal emerald grass folded gently onto oceanfront hills. 

June, and the sheep just outside the Lerwick town center grow fatter and bolder than ever.

June, and Yonghoon learns the local term for midnight sun: _the simmer dim._ It’s the simmer dim that allows golfing at midnight (a midsummer tradition); it’s the simmer dim that allows a sleepless Yonghoon to pick his way carefully along the shoreline at 1:00 in the morning without losing his footing, seagulls assessing him balefully as the wind ruffles their feathers. 

June, and one morning at The Peerie Draatsi, his hands wrapped around a warm, enamel mug, Yonghoon gives up trying to figure out the proper protocol for asking a stupefyingly attractive near-stranger to drive him around – just gives up and _asks._

“Harin said you have a camper van,” he suddenly says to Hyungu, who’s come to the table to clear his plate. “Do you want company? Would you take me north? To Yell, or Unst? I want to see the other islands.” 

Hyungu holds the plate and blinks. His blond hair is showing the faintest hints of dark roots, and his purple hoodie looks soft and cozy. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “When would you want to go?” he asks. 

“Whenever,” answers Yonghoon, slightly breathless that the handsome café worker, occasionally a touch gruff, hasn’t rejected him outright. “I can’t be gone Thursdays, but other than that, I set my own schedule.” 

Hyungu considers this for a long enough moment that Yonghoon fears he’s trying to come up with a polite way to reject the request. But – “Okay,” says Hyungu’s voice. “Well… I can take some time off. We should go soon, though, so that we can be as far north as possible on the longest day of the year. Do you think you’d be ready next week? Friday?” 

“I’ll check my busy social calendar,” laughs Yonghoon. “You know how hectic things are around here.”

Hyungu cracks a small smile at this. “Okay. Let me take this to the kitchen, and we can talk about it.” 

“Oh, yeah, absolutely,” says Yonghoon, all in a rush. “Sorry, I know you have a job to do; I didn’t mean to spring this on you.” 

“It’s fine,” says Hyungu, already turning and walking the plate to the kitchen. 

He gets caught up in taking care of the few other patrons in the café before he can get back to Yonghoon’s table. When he returns, he stands awkwardly until Yonghoon remembers to offer him a chair. 

Hyungu sits here, across from Yonghoon, his purple hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows and leaning over the table ever so slightly, and Yonghoon smells a faint soapy scent, fresh and clean. Whether shampoo or detergent, it’s distracting enough that he misses the first part of what Hyungu is telling him. 

“But if you’re okay sharing the bunk, then obviously it makes things easier,” finishes Hyungu – and suddenly Yonghoon wishes he’d been paying more attention to the first half of the sentence. 

“Yeah, totally fine sharing a bunk!” Yonghoon hopes Hyungu doesn’t catch the slight, nervous gulp in his throat. 

Part of him wonders whether here, in this tiny town, word has reached Hyungu that Yonghoon is gay. It’s one of the reasons he led his very first poetry discussion with the “No Money, No Boyfriend” poem – to get this fact out there in the open right from the start. Before accepting the fellowship, Yonghoon had read that Shetland is slightly more conservative than many parts of the United Kingdom. Still, the response to the poem was completely free of judgment or negativity. Of course, people attending poetry seminars might not be representative of the population at large – and Hyungu might still be enough of an outsider to be excluded from this kind of gossip. 

And would he feel weird sharing a camper van bunk with a gay man? Well, there’s no non-awkward way to come out, right exactly here and now. 

He tunes back into Hyungu’s words in time to hear him say, “So bring lots and lots of layers, because who _knows_ what the weather might do. T-shirt weather or snow – it’s all possible, 12 months of the year. Though the snow’s unlikely, of course.” 

“Yeah, absolutely. Of course. I’ll be ready. Friday morning!” Yonghoon nods. “Wait, do you need my phone number? Let me just give it to – ” 

“Harin gave it to me already,” interrupts Hyungu, an unreadable shift crossing his face for just a second. “I’ll text you; then you’ll have mine.” 

Yonghoon could say Harin had already done the same, for him, but some undefinable hesitation stops him. He waits for his phone to vibrate with Hyungu’s incoming text message, then looks across the table and says, “Thank you, I got it!” 

Something about the situation is funny to Yonghoon, and a giggle escapes his mouth. 

Hyungu doesn’t ask what’s funny. He simply smiles his gentle, closed-mouth smile and stands back up, resuming his tasks throughout the café, finally refilling coffees he’s been neglecting as he chats about the upcoming road trip he’s just agreed to take with Yonghoon. 

Road trip. _Road trip!_ They’re going to go on a road trip. 

_Together._

Yonghoon’s throat is suddenly dry, but his coffee mug is empty, and he’s not about to call Hyungu over to his table again. 

He settles his bill in cash, tucked under the salt shaker. He picks up his jacket and waves Hyungu a quick goodbye, then heads back home to attempt – futilely, he knows – to focus on writing. 

_____ 

**Orange**  
\- 진용훈

The pages of the travel book were worn  
to a creamy silt-color, a muddier  
white than the wool of the sheep  
nibbling in its pages. I found  
this guide in a secondhand bookstore, leading  
to a chain of islands, evergreen and everfogged –  
and in turn I followed the chain  
of my thoughts, each link to link,  
the mud and the islands, the journey  
(as they say) half the delight – 

but the other half – the getting  
to the islands, the getting  
_of_ the islands, once got,  
proving to be a far more brilliant  
experience, though yes, everfogged  
(but not overfogged; justrightfogged),  
and perhaps a little mud-silty  
on the outside, but on the inside –  
the luminous vellum of Viking memory,  
the small, golden loch of fiery orange emotion. 

_____ 

“It’s orange!” says Yonghoon, duffel bag slung across his shoulder. 

“Well, I wanted a purple one, but it turns out buying these camper vans at a reasonable price isn’t trivial,” explains Hyungu. “Even this one I had to buy in Inverness and then bring across here on the ferry.” 

“Life here is pretty dependent on ferries, isn’t it?” asks Yonghoon, as they pack his few bags into the van. 

“Sure is,” says Hyungu. He doesn’t elaborate, and they don’t speak again until they’re driving past the small loch on the outskirts of town. 

“See that small ruin?” asks Hyungu. 

“No,” answers Yonghoon, honestly. 

Hyungu giggles a bit. “Fair. It’s pretty small, you might not see it. We just passed something called a broch. It’s like a tower, or it used to be, anyway. They’re ancient – prehistoric. Stop me if Harin’s already told you about this…”

“Oh, we didn’t talk about history all that much, so this is news to me. He did show me the trees, though!”

Now Hyungu outright laughs. “Damn! The tree grove was actually going to be our first surprise stop. I could have taken the other road out of Lerwick, going north! Oh, well, it’s a fairly small detour. We’re on vacation time, right?”

“Yeah,” agrees Yonghoon. “And it’s not like we’ll be stuck in the dark or anything.” 

“True,” says Hyungu, and they fall quiet again. 

He drives the old van steadily along the single-track roads, occasionally slowing for sheep grids or pulling over to let oncoming traffic pass. 

“Can you imagine this sort of thing in Korea?” asks Yonghoon. “A road barely narrow enough for one car, and you have to check to make sure no ponies are blocking your way before you move aside to let the other person pass!” 

“It’s different for sure! But you get used to it. I’m just grateful to be living on solid land full-time, honestly.” 

“That’s right,” says Yonghoon. “Harin said you worked on the offshore platform with him. What made you decide to work in such a remote place?” 

Hyungu doesn’t immediately respond, and when Yonghoon glances to his right (he’s still not used to seeing the driver’s seat on the right of the car), he sees Hyungu’s lips pursed in thought. 

“Sorry, maybe that’s rude.”

“It’s fine, but I’d rather not talk about it, I guess,” says Hyungu. “Not right now, anyway. Sorry.” 

“Oh, no. No, it’s totally fine.” 

They pass into another quiet stretch, this one a little more awkward. Yonghoon feels his shirt clinging to the nape of his neck and the backs of his arms, suddenly very conscious of his physical surroundings in the absence of distracting chatter. 

The quiet is broken by their arrival at the first ferry: from the Mainland island of Shetland to the island of Yell. 

“Do we just stay in the car?” asks Yonghoon, as Hyungu drives the van onto the ferry. 

“We can, but let’s get out and stretch our legs! It’s about a half hour’s trip.”

This ferry is far smaller than the high-speed one Yonghoon took to get to Shetland, and most of the people aboard are outside, in the fresh air, chatting and taking pictures of the scenery. 

A commotion arises to one side of the vessel, and Yonghoon follows Hyungu to the growing crowd. 

“A pod of orca!” says a delighted woman with long, braided hair. 

Yonghoon wipes the mist off his glasses and finds an empty spot at the railing. Sure enough, there are the rising peaks of large black triangles, popping in and out of the water like an arcade game. 

His breath catches. It’s an unbelievable thing to be witnessing – whales, right here in front of him. A few of the black triangles – the dorsal fins of the orca – are noticeably smaller. Not just whales, he realizes: a _family_ of whales. Including baby whales! 

He grips the railing tightly, convinced that this must be a dream – this orange camper van, this blond man standing next to him in a purple hoodie, this excited woman with braided hair telling him about a pod of orca as though it were a completely normal human experience for a Korean city-dweller to have.

Moments like these, Yonghoon remembers why he’s a poet. 

_____ 

Their ferry reaches the island of Yell, and Yonghoon finds this bleak island a little anticlimactic after the thrill of the whale pod. 

“It’s only about half an hour’s drive from here to the next ferry,” says Hyungu. “But… this is a little embarrassing, but I could use a nap. Do you mind if we just pull over and rest for a bit?” 

“Not at all!” Yonghoon stretches his long arms above his head. “Honestly, I could probably do with a nap, myself.” 

He realizes only after he’s said it that this means sleeping together in the van’s bunk – sharing a very confined, intimate sleeping space before they’ve even reached their destination island. A shiver rolls through his body, catching at the low of his back, across his hips.

They pop open the sleeping bunk, nestled into the top of the van, and Yonghoon sees that Hyungu has already arranged sheets onto the makeshift mattress. 

He wasn’t kidding about needing a nap, but in the ensuing hour, Yonghoon doesn’t sleep at all. He lies there, listening to the faint sound of the ocean beyond the reaches of rocky Yell, watching Hyungu’s blond hair fall across his face and the way his purple-sleeved arms tuck his fists underneath his chin.

Hyungu’s breath is soft and steady, like everything else about him. 

Yonghoon smells the faint soapy scent again; he concludes that it’s Hyungu’s shampoo. 

He resists the urge to nibble on a strand of that bleached-blond, soapy-scented hair. 

Barely.


	4. Out Stacks and Everything Under

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a slight tagging mishap, but all should be well, now. <3

Yonghoon wakes up alone in the van’s bunk, breathing the stale air in the small overhead space. Apparently his brain did eventually – briefly – drift to fitful sleep.

He slithers down until his feet find the floor underneath him, tugging his now-rumpled shirt down from its bunched position around his upper body. He attempts to clear his throat, shuddering a bit at the awful, gargled noise that his voice produces instead. 

Yonghoon opens the side door to the van and sees Hyungu sitting on a low stone wall, his back to the van, looking out to the foggy sea. His blond hair swishes erratically to the side in the pulses of sea winds, and Hyungu reaches a hand up, as if to try tucking the hair back into place. But the hand pauses in the air, then drops back down, as if maybe he forgot what he was doing or gave up before even trying. Yonghoon doesn’t want to startle him; he picks his way over to Hyungu less than gracefully, intentionally kicking at the gravel under his feet more noisily than he usually would. 

Hyungu doesn’t acknowledge Yonghoon’s approach, but neither does he flinch when the tall poet joins him on the low wall, folding his long legs awkwardly onto the old stones. 

“Do you miss it?” asks Yonghoon. 

“Miss what?” Hyungu doesn’t avert his glance, though in the thick fog, there’s not much to see. 

“The ocean. Living in it, I guess.” 

Though Yonghoon sees Hyungu sighs a little, the sound is lost in the wind. “I pretty much still do live in the ocean. In Shetland you almost have to be trying to avoid it.” 

Yonghoon thinks of the ocean view from his modest apartment. He decides not to push Hyungu, despite the non-answer he just gave Yonghoon’s question. Instead, he takes his small notebook from his pocket and makes a few notes, figuring that Hyungu isn’t the type to peer over his shoulder or ask what he’s writing. He’s correct. 

They sit there in relative silence until the foot Yonghoon tucked underneath himself falls asleep. He tries not to fidget too much but finally gives up, springing up and hopping a little, laughter burbling into the quiet. 

Hyungu finally looks at him, wide-eyed. “You okay?” 

Yonghoon smiles. “I just sometimes can’t believe I’m here, you know? Also, I’m starving. Should we break out the snacks or do you think there’s going to be somewhere to eat?” 

Hyungu stands up, stretches, and reaches a hand under his hoodie to straighten his shirt underneath. Yonghoon tries not to stare at the sliver of skin that flashes into the light from under the purple fabric. “There’s for sure a little café in Unst.” He checks his phone. “If we get back onto the road quickly, we should make the next ferry there. Can you help me pop the top back down?” 

Yonghoon nods with a grin. “With food on the line? You bet.” 

They reach the ferry in time, and by the time they find the café on the island of Unst, even Hyungu is complaining lightly about his hunger, whining softly in an unguarded way Yonghoon hasn’t previously heard. “Would it kill them to have just a few more stores or cafés on the islands?” is his repeated grumble until they stumble through the front door of a clean, quiet little eatery.

They buy small sandwiches and soft drinks, and for a moment the only sound in the café is their mutually satisfied grunting into the bland, pale bread. 

“This is one of the reasons I don’t know if I could live here forever,” says Hyungu. “I really miss Korean food a lot,” he confesses. “I’m not even a terrible cook, though Harin is better. But living alone… it’s not worth trying to buy in the right ingredients just to cook for myself, you know?” 

Yonghoon swallows a bite of sandwich and nods. Feeling emboldened by the success of the road trip so far, he says, “We should cook dinner for each other more often. I’ll bet we can even make our own kimchi.” 

Hyungu stares at him for several seconds, mouth frozen mid-chew, before he resumes eating. Yonghoon thinks he sees a hint of a suppressed smile around the corners of his mouth. 

Sure enough, once the sandwiches have disappeared, and they’re taking leisurely sips of their drinks, Hyungu says, “We should. Cook Korean dinners, I mean.” He looks away. “Together,” he adds, and a small shiver ripples down Yonghoon’s spine. 

They drive onward, every car-length bringing them further north, until Hyungu pulls over without warning, parking the van in an unassuming small space off the road. 

“See that?” he asks, pointing ahead of the windscreen. 

“I guess…?” Yonghoon isn’t sure what he’s meant to be seeing. 

“Let’s go take a look!” says Hyungu, voice the most mischievous that Yonghoon has yet heard. 

As they approach, Yonghoon sees that it’s a bus stop. The walls are clear, there’s a roof to guard any passengers from rain, but there ends the similarity to any other bus stop. The inside is absolutely covered in every square millimeter with blankets, picture books, romance novels, toys, gadgets, and a guest book. A tiny, ancient TV has been converted to a terrarium of sorts, with a small potted plant inside where the picture used to display.

“What on earth…?” Yonghoon is astonished.

Hyungu grins in triumph. “Harin got you to the trees first and stole my thunder there, but this one’s mine! May I present… the most northern bus stop in the United Kingdom!” 

Yonghoon cracks up. “So… the locals decorated it?!” 

“Oh, yeah! Might as well, right? If there’s anything I’ve learned from living in Shetland, it’s that you’ve got to make your own fun.” 

Yonghoon finds a slinky toy among the mad assortment of objects, and he shuffles the coils back and forth between his hands. “This is so strange – and utterly endearing. I love it! Way better than the trees.”

He looks up from the slinky toy just in time to catch what looks like – no, surely not? – a slight pinkening of Hyungu’s cheeks. He sets the toy down and takes a few pictures of the bus stop interior. He hesitates, then asks, “Can I get a picture of you inside the bus stop?”

Hyungu’s cheeks darken to a deeper, unmistakable shade of pink. “I… guess.” 

A part of Yonghoon wants to say _Ah, no, don’t worry about it,_ but that part is overridden by his desire for a photo of blond Hyungu surrounded by the madness of the most northern bus stop in the United Kingdom. He waves the café worker inside until he’s framed the perfect shot. 

“Should I smile?” asks Hyungu, and he looks so questioning and wistful that Yonghoon can’t help but take the picture right exactly then. Hyungu’s face is frozen like this in the photo, looking a little unsettled, a little adrift; he’s surrounded by the brightly colored, over-the-top welcome of this unorthodox bus top. It’s _perfect._

“Sure,” says Yonghoon, and he takes another as soon as Hyungu’s face illuminates into a surprisingly radiant smile, given his expression a second ago. 

But Yonghoon knows which of the two pictures he’ll be secretly storing in his Favorites folder, later. 

They make it to the northern end of Unst by what should be nightfall. It’s only twilight, though, the light and fog combining to create a surreal, misty gray world around them. 

“To get to the very northern tip, we have to hike for a bit,” says Hyungu. “The ground is a little muggy and uneven, I’ve heard, so I’m glad you brought sturdy walking shoes.” 

The two men have been driving north, north, north, as if pulled by inner magnets, but now that they’re on foot, Yonghoon feels a little disoriented. Hyungu at least seems to have a good feel for the direction they need to walk, and Yonghoon tries to repress the small waves of anxiety washing over him. 

The fog and low sun cast eerie half-light across the damp hills, and Yonghoon feels that the whole scenario is somehow surreal and unearthly. The monotone, high-pitched _cheep, cheep_ of a bird seems to follow their progress, adding to the dreamlike vibe. 

As midnight approaches, they finally reach the top of a hill in time for the fog to clear a little bit. Just enough, really, for them to see a grouping of sea boulders off the coast. 

“Out stacks,” says Hyungu, pronouncing “Out” the Shetland way: _Oot._ “It’s the most northern land owned by the UK. Beyond that, if you were to just draw a line straight up from us, there’s nothing, just the north pole and all the arctic ice and wind you could ever desire.” 

That revelation makes Yonghoon’s breath catch in his throat. He stares across the water, finding it somehow amazing to think that if he followed this path in a straight line, out over the ocean, the next body of land he would encounter would be Asia. 

“The ground’s damp, but do you want to have a seat and wait for the non-sunset?” asks Hyungu. “We can change back into dry clothing at the van, later.”

Yonghoon laughs. “The non-sunset? What a term!” But he’s already crouching down, patting the soggy, grassy hill, trying to find the best place to sit. 

As he settles onto the ground, Hyungu sits down nearby. Yonghoon suppresses his urge to fill the silence with chatter; instead, the insistent _cheep, cheep, cheep_ of the bird becomes an increasingly creepy soundtrack to their moment here. 

Just when Yonghoon’s not sure he can take much more of the cheeping, Hyungu laughs aloud – an amazing, rolling, bubbly laugh – and says, “That bird is really fucking annoying, huh?” 

They laugh together, over the horrible beeping bird noise. Yonghoon, caught in a wave of surreal feeling, as if he were totally outside the realm of ordinary reality, scoots over across the soggy ground and slouches down, resting his head on Hyungu’s shoulder. 

Hyungu stiffens a little, and Yonghoon feels a rush of guilt as he sits up straight again. He should have asked. “Sorry, I…” he trails off, thoughts running murky in his time-confused, light-confused state. 

But Hyungu settles his shoulders back down and says, “It’s okay. Anyway,” and he sighs a little, expression lifting at the corners of his eyes, “See the sun?” 

Yonghoon does see the sun. 

Together, they watch it slowly creep down closer, closer, closer to the horizon – but never set. It kisses the sea and then slowly bends back upward. 

“No nighttime! That’s how you know you’re in the true north.” Hyungu sounds very pleased, speaking as he stands up to stretch. 

“I can’t believe I just saw that!” says Yonghoon, holding his small notebook but unsure what to write inside it. _Non-sunset,_ he finally scribbles. It’ll do. 

They don’t speak as they trudge back to the van through the hazy landscape. Yonghoon feels the wetness of his jeans clinging to his thighs and thinks to himself that this soggy denim, this bizarre little bird, this misty quiet, is far closer to a fairytale storybook version of a poet’s life than the usual reality of Yonghoon’s days. Well, okay – how they used to be. Now? Now, it’s not exactly _normal,_ this kind of a day, but it all seems to fit, somehow – to slot into the scope of his days and weeks here in a way that feels like something Yonghoon could call home. 

Sleeping next to Hyungu doesn’t feel like home, though. Yonghoon mostly feels like he’s out to sea, floating in his thoughts, without anchor, tether, or ground. Although he’s dressed in warm, woolen layers, the air is dense and damp. As he lies in the bunk, listening to the distant cheeping of birds far beyond the gravel under the orange camper van, it’s all suddenly too alien. The faintly soapy smell does more to awaken Yonghoon than settle his wandering mind, and occasional full-body shivers jar him awake from his fitful, surface-level dreams. 

By the time they make it home again to Lerwick, Yonghoon isn’t sure he’s learned much about Hyungu. The list is short: 

• Likes purple  
• Steady driver, not hugely chatty  
• Doesn’t like talking about life on the oil rig  
• Misses Korean food (understandable)  
• Has a great ass, which one might learn if one happened to be walking right behind him for an extended period of time, hiking over damp hills in misty twilight 

Given that Hyungu hasn’t opened up to him in any meaningful way, Yonghoon concludes he still has no idea what the man is really like. Shetland sightseeing aside, the trip has been educational already, helping Yonghoon pin down his own feelings. And his feelings are these: his crush is entirely superficial, based purely on Hyungu’s hotness.

It’s a relief, of course. It’s easier to have this kind of crush. Attraction is simple; attraction is easily navigable. 

Connections are the complicated part; connections are best avoided. 

But this? This will be fine. 

_____ 

At the next poetry seminar, Dongmyeong and Giwook bring Yonghoon a small jar of kimchi.

“We heard from Harin that you were going to try to make your own,” says Giwook. 

“No offense,” follows Dongmyeong, “But you don’t really seem the domestic, culinary type…? So we just bought you this at the little organic foods store down the street.” 

“They sell kimchi in Shetland?!” Yonghoon nearly falls over laughing. 

“Well, this kind is a little weird,” admits Dongmyeong. “Not the most authentic. But yeah, they’ve got kimchi!”

Yonghoon cradles the jar happily to his chest, like he would a kitten or a baby. “Thank you so much. This is great.” He can’t stop giggling. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to repay you.” 

“Of course you can!” says Giwook. “Keep us company in this remote place. Come clubbing with us tomorrow night! Friday’s the best night to go out, here. Afterward, we can grab fish and chips. It’s a whole _thing,_ ” he says, with an air of importance. “We’ll take care of you and even introduce you to some hot locals, if you like.” 

Dongmyeong gives Giwook a skeptical look. “Who are you going to introduce Yonghoon-hyung to, here in Lerwick?” 

Giwook twizzles his eyebrows at Dongmyeong in an exaggerated gesture that Yonghoon can’t interpret, but Dongmyeong laughs, with a flicker of something like understanding behind his mischievous eyes. 

Yonghoon knows he can go clubbing. He can go. He’s an adult; he can take care of himself, and he’s not about to forsake the social scene entirely here. There just aren’t enough people to continue to decline social offers, not unless he wants to spend the whole year’s fellowship living an even more remote, hermetic life than necessary in these islands. 

Still, he’s hesitant: clubbing means drinking, for virtually everyone. To the vast majority of people, the two verbs are linked in a permanent partnership. For one thing, most people can’t imagine dancing on a club floor with their inhibitions fully intact.

But Yonghoon nearly chuckles aloud, considering how few inhibitions of that sort he has to begin with. They have no idea how little alcohol he needs (none; exactly none) to dance or speak or even sing in front of others.

As they continue to wheedle him into going, he considers their offer, half-tuning out their continued reasons why clubbing is going to be _so awesome,_ instead putting his concentration into fidgeting with the jar, rolling its glassy smoothness against his upper body.

“Besides,” says Dongmyeong, his face suddenly resigned and calm, “We just like you.” 

Giwook looks a little surprised at this but then nods, quiet and sincere.

And so, cold glass jar of kimchi tucked securely under his chin now, rolling it onto his neck and collarbone without regard for how weird this looks, Yonghoon hears himself say, “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Tomorrow. Let’s go clubbing.” 

He tries to nod, and the jar pops out from under his neck. He barely catches it in his hands after fumbling it in the air a bit. 

Dongmyeong and Giwook look at each other, shrug their shoulders in unison, and giggle. 

It’s only after the seminar has dispersed and Yonghoon is walking home that he realizes the Trouble Twins said they learned about his desire to make kimchi from Harin, not Hyungu. 

How does _Harin_ know about it? 

Weird.


	5. Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay! Thank you for your patience as I get some personal systems back online, [one at a time](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o0YWRXJsMyM).

The next morning – Friday morning, _clubbing_ morning – Yonghoon doesn’t eat breakfast at The Peerie Draatsi. 

He tells himself it’s because he needs to be a little more responsible with his finances, if he’s going to start going out on the weekends – though his Arts Council stipend is quite generous. 

Yonghoon eats his toast in the early stillness of his small kitchen, his wrists resting on the cool, wooden surface of the round table. His favorite chair faces the small window, overlooking the ocean. 

He avoids looking at the other three chairs tucked under the table, empty since the morning he arrived on the island.

That night, Yonghoon actively avoids trying to dress in his nicest outfit. Standing here in front of his open wardrobe, assessing his options, he clocks a tiny part of his brain waving a purple flag with “Hyungu” written on it – but he squints his eyes at his clothing, draped on hangers, and focuses on the fall of the fabric until the signal goes away. It’s just a crush. He doesn’t need to impress anyone; he shouldn’t be trying to impress anyone. He has a mission tonight, and the mission is to go out dancing with his new friends, show them all that he has social skills despite being older, retain or deepen their friendship, and… and? 

And have fun, maybe. Maybe it’s that simple. Or maybe the mission is one of those “I’ll know it when I see it” type of things. 

Yonghoon has an easy laugh; everyone says so. He just needs to let himself be, well, himself.

He gives his hair one last shake, ducking down to peer into the small, wooden-framed mirror above his sink, then turns to leave the flat. 

As he approaches the club’s entrance, tucked along a cobblestone street in the town center, he takes a deep breath. Salt air, sparkling and faintly verdant, fills his lungs.

_____ 

Here is a truth: Yonghoon knows that he is attractive and charming, intelligent and well-spoken. 

Here is another truth: he has no idea, most of the time, what to make of this information. It’s like he was given a set of woodworking tools at birth, but nobody ever showed him how to settle a knob of wood onto the lathe; nobody ever explained to him the difference between a slotted and a Phillips screwdriver; nobody ever held his hands in place as he slid a plank of maple haltingly against a miter saw, making sure he didn’t lose a finger to the blade. 

And that’s the thing, isn’t it? Tools are dangerous, if you don’t know what you’re doing. And Yonghoon knows just enough to know that he doesn’t know what he’s doing. 

So he ignores his tools, for the most part. It’s not that he represses them, so much as leaving them unacknowledged, never consciously lifting his thoughts in their direction. Every now and then, if he is really invested in an interesting conversation, he might suddenly pay closer attention to himself and see a woodworking tool in his hand, wondering how it got there – wondering why this vivacious person is laughing at his jokes, wondering why that attractive person is staring at him with a dark, long urgency. 

And if he’s being honest about it, those times are thrilling – the moments he’s used his toolbox of charms without even trying, when people have responded to his arsenal of skills or personal qualities, and it could have been dangerous – _people could have gotten hurt_ – but he used them anyway, without even trying. 

The tools, that is, not the people. He’s good about not using people. Hopefully, anyway. 

And never on purpose.

_____ 

Yonghoon arrives at the club a little unsure whether he’s timed his arrival well. Too early might leave him pacing, solitary and visibly out of place; too late might be rude.

But as he pushes his way across the small dance floor, he hears Dongmyeong’s burbling laughter cutting above a thumping, four-on-the-floor house beat. Is this music even still in style here? Well, maybe things in Shetland just move at a different pace. 

“Dongmyeong-ah!” he shouts, and Dongmyeong’s head turns toward him, smile increasing to full megawatt power, luminescent above the strobe lights. 

They both elbow aside the few Friday night revelers between them and embrace each other like long-lost brothers. Yonghoon’s not sure how much of the energy he feels rising in his throat and inside his stomach is a contact high – a general sense of giddiness held aloft by Shetlanders in clinging club attire. 

He spies Giwook lurking behind Dongmyeong, earrings swinging against his cheek and neck, and wonders whether they’re merely here together tonight, or whether they’re _together._

“Best friends,” Harin had called the Trouble Twins, but you never know. Still, it might be Yonghoon projecting his own queerness onto others. Is that a thing? That might be a thing.

But before he can dwell on it overly, the two of them suck Yonghoon into the froth of dancing clubbers, and he loses himself, song after song, to the sheer, wordless joy of jumping when everyone jumps, undulating when the melody clicks with his inner sense of rhythm, and flailing merrily when it doesn’t. 

It’s fun. Yonghoon’s been missing this – fun, for its own sake. 

They take a break to head to the bar, and Yonghoon gets himself a soda while paying for the Trouble Twins’ drinks. If they notice that he’s not drinking alcohol, they don’t comment on it. Maybe they haven’t noticed. If that’s the case, he’ll want to tell them at some point. It feels dishonest otherwise; he’s not hiding anything. It’s taken Yonghoon years to learn to avoid hiding, after all. But for now, he’s happy to simply enjoy his first real Friday night since he arrived in the islands.

As if hearing his thoughts, he glances over to see Dongmyeong and Giwook regarding him with relaxed, friendly eyes.

“Aw, hyung, it’s good to have you here,” says Giwook. 

“What, in Shetland?” 

“I meant here in the club, paying for this round, but y’know, sure! It’s great you’re in Shetland, too.” 

It’s not _that_ funny, but Yonghoon’s laughter nearly buckles him in half, buoyed by the dance club’s frenetic lightness. 

The finish their drinks and lose themselves to the music again, Yonghoon’s eardrums only protesting slightly at the overdriven bass and occasional shriek of an intoxicated local.

The music abruptly switches gears to gritty dubstep – _really, Shetland?_ – and Yonghoon decides to sit this one out from the dance floor. There’s not much room in this place to just camp out, for those who are neither drinking nor dancing, so he tells Dongmyeong and Giwook he’s stepping outside for some fresh air. 

Once he deems himself a safe distance from the noise and energy of the club, Yonghoon sinks to a crouch, leaning his back against the glass storefront of a neighboring business, closed for the evening. 

His breaths even out, the air delicate and clear, even here in the center of the small town.

“Got any exciting news for us, hyung?” Harin’s voice suddenly echoes slightly in the narrow space between the concrete storefronts. 

“What?” Yonghoon snaps his eyes open, not understanding the question. He sees both Harin and Hyungu, who must have just turned the corner to find him here, leaning against the storefront.

Hyungu’s got his hands in his trouser pockets, a worn denim jacket perfectly framing his proportions. He cocks his head to the side, and his blond hair swoops out of his eye a bit. When Harin starts chuckling, Hyungu rolls his eyes – but does nothing to conceal the grin spreading across his face.

“You’ve got news, yeah?” Harin points to the shop window behind Yonghoon. _Butterfly Baby_ says the lettering across the glass, and there are teddy bears and baby clothes in the display behind the window. 

Yonghoon startles, his laugh skittering down the cobblestones. “Just getting fresh air – the Trouble Twins dragged me out to the club tonight. Might as well head back inside, I guess. Were you two heading there also?” 

“Yeah,” says Harin, and Hyungu nods. “We’re fresh out of other exciting things to do on Friday nights.” 

“Okay, well, that’s a conversation for another time,” says Yonghoon, already thinking that maybe it’s high time they instituted a weekly movie night or something. “For now, let’s get shaking!” 

Harin’s grimace is exaggerated and teasing. “‘Let’s get shaking,’ hyung? God, how old are you?” 

Yonghoon pulls an offended face, as he turns to walk with them back into the club. “If you think I’m behind the times, you should hear the music they’re playing!” 

He loses himself to the progressively looser, sweatier, more chaotic atmosphere. Despite his teasing, the venue plays a decent mix of music, keeping everyone guessing from track to track. It’s hard to figure out a specific vibe, but then maybe, as it’s the only dance club in town, they just decided to throw everything into the mix. A one-stop musical madness shop. 

It’s Hyungu’s turn to buy when Yonghoon gets his first question about the alcohol. “Sure you don’t want anything beyond the soda, hyung?” asks Hyungu. 

“Yeah, thank you; I don’t drink. Anymore,” says Yonghoon. Hyungu looks at him for a beat, then nods and asks the bartender for a soda. “Sounds good, hyung,” he says, turning back to Yonghoon. “I’ll remember that.”

Yonghoon feels a flutter of relief. He could have predicted that Hyungu wouldn’t be the type to make a big deal about it, but a shrug or joke would have felt just as bad, in a different way. 

As evening energy thumps closer to nighttime energy, Yonghoon makes the decision to try and do this a little more often, with this same group of people. None of the five of them are exactly good at dancing, though Dongmyeong has a certain diamond-in-the-rough natural musicality to his efforts, and Harin’s got a surprisingly good sense of rhythm. Still, the mood is fantastic – electric and free, zinging through Yonghoon’s veins, and it makes a compelling case for not spending every waking moment either in his flat or in transit back and forth to it. 

Hyungu ditches his denim jacket shortly after his arrival, and his plain white t-shirt and jeans remind Yonghoon of a classic, vintage movie renegade. James Dean, maybe.

He tries not to stare at the increasingly damp hair clinging to the perimeter of Hyungu’s face. But when Hyungu lifts a hand to push his hair back, and a visible bead of sweat trickles down from his temple, past the inside of his ear, and then – gathering speed – onto his elegant, exposed neck, Yonghoon has to excuse himself for another round of fresh air. 

They’re going to think he’s going soft in his old age. Well, maybe he is. 

The fresh air – a little more biting now, wind turning sharper and cutting around the corners with some force – revives him, and he has no regrets about his decision to hunker down next to the baby supply store once more. He probably shouldn’t just be sitting on the chilly cobblestones, but he’ll deal with that decision later. For now, no regrets. Only relaxed, gentle breaths.

Until, that is, Hyungu – now with denim jacket slung over one shoulder, the _nerve_ – sidles up next to him and crouches down alongside the storefront. 

“Did you need a break, too?” asks Yonghoon, although the answer is obvious. So much for being charming or well-spoken.

But Hyungu cocks his head and says, “I don’t know that I’d call it a break. I don’t think I’m headed back inside tonight. There’s a limit to how much intense social contact I can tolerate, and I tend to hit it pretty quickly in a club.” He scrunches his face a little, then adds, “Besides, I work tomorrow morning. Not too early, thank god, but still.” 

“Oh! Fair. But… well. You don’t need to be keeping me company, out here in the chilly air. I’ll confess I’m not as introverted as you, but I totally get it if you want to just head home. I don’t require company _all_ the time.” 

“Oh, no worries, hyung. This is different.” Hyungu’s eyes drift away from Yonghoon’s. “You’re different.” 

Yonghoon just nods, resisting the urge to ask Hyungu to elaborate what he means by that. Hyungu considers him for a moment, then untucks his legs and moves from a crouch to sitting fully on the ground.

They’re quiet for a bit, sounds of the nearby club spilling into the alleyway, the faintest hiss of nearby harbor water on stone occasionally reaching Yonghoon’s ears. 

“Can I ask you something?” He lifts his face to Hyungu’s. “If this is out of line, or if you just feel you can’t answer, I’m sorry in advance. But I’m curious.” 

“Okayyyy,” says Hyungu, eyebrows sky-high. “I am also curious now – as well as a little scared.” 

Yonghoon tries for a giggle but fears it sounds tinny. “No, nothing scary, just…” He composes himself. He doesn’t want to come off as joking about this particular topic. “You know about Harin’s neurological symptoms?” 

Hyungu just nods, brows no less relaxed. 

“He didn’t seem to be having any rhythm issues dancing. What gives? I thought he had coordination challenges, but then… I just can’t figure out the dancing part.”

Hyungu’s shifting expression turns thoughtful for a second before cracking a smile. “Are you saying you think he’s a good dancer? Because… I mean, he’s one of my best friends, but I think that’s being a little generous to his talents.” 

Yonghoon smiles, relieved that Hyungu’s not taking offense at this line of questioning. “I didn’t say I thought he was _good._ But he’s got rhythm, and in his own Harin-like way, he seems pretty musical, and just.. better with his reflexes than I would have imagined.” 

Hyungu half-shrugs. “I think he was just born with rhythm, honestly. And it’s true he occasionally struggles with coordination, sort of… keeping exact track of where his limbs are, all the time, after all the deep-sea diving. But from what I know about it, it’s different from a lot of similar conditions, like… the alcohol, the music, it might actually help a bit. In that particular regard, I mean. Not saying alcohol’s a cure-all,” Hyungu casts a quick and careful glance at Yonghoon, “But in this specific situation, yeah. I think it legitimately does help his dancing.” 

Yonghoon takes several moments to let this sink in. There are a few layers to unpack here, and he’s just not sure he’s in a state of mind to tackle them all. 

Still, Hyungu seems chattier than normal, whether because of the drinking, the dancing, or something else altogether. 

“What about you?” asks Yonghoon.

“What about me?” 

“I didn’t think you were hugely into dancing. Somehow doesn’t feel like your scene. Am I jumping to conclusions?” 

Hyungu looks down at the cobblestones and hums, as if rolling the question around in his head, before responding. 

“It isn’t usually, I guess. My scene, I mean. But the Trouble Twins have a way of bringing people out of their shells, y’know?” 

Yonghoon suspects he does, but what he says is, “Not really. Tell me about it…?” 

Hyungu looks at him, really _looks at him_ , then answers. If not exactly in detail, still with more depth than Yonghoon’s heard before. His shoulders settle down lower against his body, and he talks about himself, his social anxieties, and his friendship with the others in Shetland. He talks for long enough that Harin eventually exits the club, sees them seated on the cold ground, says goodbye with a strange quirk in his eyes, and Hyungu just picks right back up where he’d left off. 

With every new revelation (Hyungu was truly unhappy on the oil rig; Shetland has welcomed him, in its soft, subtle, inscrutable way; listening to music has anchored him day to day and night to night; the owners of The Peerie Draatsi have all but adopted him as their new, Korean son), Yonghoon feels a scale falling from an internal armor he hadn’t even realized he’d constructed.

Hyungu doesn’t seem to notice the way Yonghoon’s defenses are crumbling. 

Yonghoon mostly holds his breath, listening to Hyungu, until finally he can’t take the cold stones underneath his thighs any longer. “I’d say we should head somewhere warmer to continue this conversation, like a café, but I think the only place still open is the club, and that’s not exactly ideal for talking, either.” He takes what he hopes is not a visibly deep breath before adding, “Do you want to come over? I can make you a cup of tea, and we can thaw out our legs a bit.” 

Hyungu’s face seems caught, somehow. Not quite frozen, but caught. Eventually he shakes loose whatever internal hooks latched onto him, says, “No, thank you, hyung. Sorry for rambling. I better go.” 

“No, _no_ – this was good. I think I needed to hear that – to know something about someone here, beyond the superficial level of everyone’s politeness.” Yonghoon realizes after he said it that he means it. Hearing Hyungu actually talk about himself in a deeper sense has been wonderful, not just because Yonghoon likes Hyungu – also in part because Shetland has still felt a little, well, foreign until now. This has been good. 

And okay, maybe hearing about the rougher aspects of Hyungu’s last few years has also been the tiniest bit devastating, even without any real details, but… well. Yonghoon shakes his curiosity away from that line of questioning. If asking difficult questions means hearing difficult answers, he’s not sure he can keep his face neutral – and that particular mental breakdown doesn’t need to happen here, in the center of town, steps away from the prying personalities of a fiddling prodigy and a rapping bassist.

They’re quiet for just a beat longer, then Hyungu stands up and stretches languorously, like a cat in summer sunlight, not a café worker in a windblown, slightly damp alley. 

“See you for breakfast tomorrow?” Hyungu asks, and Yonghoon suddenly feels silly – caught out for avoiding The Peerie Draatsi today, without even really understanding why he did so in the first place. 

“Yeah, okay. See you tomorrow.” 

And Hyungu disappears softly around a corner, leaving Yonghoon to cradle his elbows and consider what he’s learned. 

Yonghoon makes it home without incident, voices of seagulls carried away in blunt swoops by the wind – is it picking up? It feels like the wind is picking up. 

He’s in flannel pajamas, curling one socked foot against the carpet, then the other, debating whether to read in his armchair or slip straight into bed, when he hears a knock at the door. 

Confused but not especially concerned – Shetland’s crime rate is extremely low – he pads to the door. He cracks it open and immediately spies faded denim, the color of Hyungu’s sleeve. 

“I’m sorry,” says Hyungu, voice rasping and unsure, the light of the simmer dim illuminating his messy hair like a frizzy halo. “I know it’s late. Can I come in?” 

Yonghoon looks at Hyungu, then down at his socked feet, then back at Hyungu. He shrugs, tries to keep his smile neutral, grasps around his mind desperately for any guidance on how not to scare this man away, in the middle of the hazy late night glow. 

“Come on in.” He opens the door widely, for Hyungu to enter. “I’ll make tea.” 

“I don’t need tea, thank you, hyung.” Hyungu leaves his shoes on the small rack Yonghoon’s procured for his flat. 

Yonghoon says, voice breezy, “Well, I do. Let me know if you change your mind, okay?” He’s already walking to the kitchen, but he catches Hyungu’s nodding out the corner of his eye. 

Hyungu follows him to the kitchen, and Yonghoon pats the back of a chair – not the one facing the window, rather one next to it with its back to the small art print Yonghoon’s hung on the wall. Hyungu takes the hint and sits at the table. 

Yonghoon putters about, making himself a cup of tea, then sits down in his usual chair. He looks at Hyungu – takes in the art print behind Hyungu’s shoulder: a silly thing, a quirky line drawing he’d found in a thrift shop in Seoul. Seen one way, the line drawing is of a tree with a child sitting on one of its branches. Seen another, it looks like a child holding a seedling in its hands. Yonghoon looks at them both, the man and the art, and he wonders whether he’s seeing Hyungu, with a touch of art, or art, with a touch of Hyungu. He catches himself thinking, _No, Hyungu_ is _the art,_ then laughs and cringes at himself. 

Hyungu looks at him questioningly. 

“Nothing,” says Yonghoon. “It’s late, and I’m happy you’re here.” He sips his tea, dying of curiosity but afraid of asking the wrong questions, of sending a skittish Hyungu running. 

Eventually, Hyungu says, “What’s your favorite color, hyung?” 

Yonghoon laughs. “What? I don’t think I have one. Blue, maybe.” He looks at the line painting, solid bright red lines on a white background, then Hyungu’s searching expression. “No, red. Yours?” 

“Purple.”

_I know,_ Yonghoon wants to say. Doesn’t say. 

“Why do you ask?”

Hyungu doesn’t answer the question, opting to ask another of his own. “Why red?” 

Yonghoon points to the print on the wall; Hyungu swivels in his chair to look at it. 

“It can be a tree, or a child, or a tree with a child, or just a backdrop for a beautiful man,” says Yonghoon. “Or,” he adds, watching the color rise in Hyungu’s cheeks, “the color of the man himself.” 

Hyungu locks eyes with him, just for a moment, just long enough for Yonghoon to nearly catch his own reflection in Hyungu’s deep irises, before dropping his gaze lower, to the table.

“Why purple?” 

“Dunno.” Hyungu starts tracing patterns on the wooden tabletop, lightly, as if to avoid leaving an actual physical impression on the material. “I just like it.” And then, suddenly, “Aren’t you going to ask why I’m here?” 

“No,” says Yonghoon. “Either you’ll tell me or I’ll have to put on my big, ol’ grown-up brain – try to figure it out on my own. Or it can be a mystery. I don’t mind mysteries; I moved to a pretty mysterious part of the world, right?” 

Hyungu’s finger pauses above the tabletop. “Do you think Shetland’s mysterious?” 

Yonghoon shrugs. “Isn’t it? Wild, windswept islands, far from civilization and all that.” 

Hyungu resumes his featherlight tracing. “I think that’s a misconception. Small places aren’t necessarily more interesting. If anything, we’ve just… limited the variables.” 

“Limited the variables?” Yonghoon cocks an eyebrow. 

“Yeah. Fewer people, fewer mysteries.” 

Yonghoon smiles. “Nah. I’m pretty sure people who live in remote locations are required to be mysterious. It’s in the contract. Per capita mystery is high. Enigma factor: many, a lot. You’re all puzzles.” 

“What, you don’t count? You live here, too.” 

Yonghoon laughs, loud and clear, uncaring about the late hour and his downstairs neighbors. “I don’t live here. I’m merely passing through. I’m not one of you.” 

Hyungu’s face shifts to something harder, a little glazed. “Okay.” He removes his hands from the table and puts them both in his lap, then leans forward a little, as if a small, invisible support beam had started to buckle. 

Yonghoon’s not sure what that’s all about. “You sure you don’t need any tea? I’ve got decaf and herbal options, if you’re worried about the caffeine.” 

Hyungu doesn’t answer, just looks away from Yonghoon, unfocused eyes drifting to the window. He finally snaps out of the reverie and clears his throat. “Sorry, I… Maybe I had too much to drink. I’m gonna get going.” 

Yonghoon doesn’t think he’s even the slightest bit tipsy anymore, hasn’t been for hours, probably, but decides not to press the matter. 

“You can come by any time,” he tells Hyungu as he puts his shoes back on. “Even normal times, times the neighbors won’t think I’ve got random late night booty calls coming over.” 

Yonghoon intended for this to make Hyungu laugh, but when he brings his face back up from adjusting his shoes, his cheeks are flushed. “Sorry. Okay.” 

And Yonghoon desperately wants to take it back, take back the silly joke, take back the part where he embarrassed Hyungu, but he suspects dwelling on it now would just make it worse. “You’re good,” he says softly, instead. “Thank you for stopping by, Hyungu-yah.” 

That night, for once, Yonghoon can’t blame the many sleepless minutes and hours on the summer light.

____ 

**Red**

\- 진용훈 

It’s rare to be just plain sad:   
tears unshed, water within,   
not contemplative or consumed,  
distracted or angry or stressed –   
just plain sad, without   
frame, without gilding.   
Still: System stress, the fraying  
cord, the tangled ribbon, the silver-skinned   
fish gasping for oxygen, the nuclear   
power plant’s needle, hovering  
near the red zone – system  
stress lurks everywhere,   
one part per million  
even in the clearest water.

But knocking on the door  
to the apricot kernel passing   
for a heart, the bitter  
almond-perfumed, wrinkled   
stone beyond the sweet, red   
consumable flesh of the fruit,  
hearing the pitter-  
patter, a small voice calling,  
“I am sad; I could not reach   
sweetness,” is rarer than rainbow  
fish in a watershed system. 

_____ 

Yonghoon wakes up late the next morning. Late enough to have missed breakfast at The Peerie Draatsi. Late enough to have missed Hyungu’s shift entirely.

He groans into his pillow, feeling the most ridiculous sense of longing – a leaded weight pinning him down in his bedsheets, pressing his heels to the mattress, squeezing his lungs with its fingertips. 

After a late breakfast scrounged from the last of the welcome basket contents, Yonghoon puts on his favorite playlist, hooks his phone up to the surprisingly powerful speakers in his living room, and cleans his entire flat, top to bottom, inside and out. He belts along at the top of his lungs. Dance hits, ballads, everything, scrubby brushes and washcloths in hand.

He’d thought it would help the longing, and maybe it does – a little, just a little – but mostly, as he stretches out exhausted on the sofa, he feels his eyes stinging. From cleaning product fumes, from exhaustion, from something he can’t name, maybe. Just… stinging.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd hoped to update before (or on!) our lovely Hyungu's birthday. Fun fact: Kang Hyungu was my very first real K-pop crush! I saw [this fancam](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tHEH3bVVvmA) and was just _gone._
> 
> Happy belated birthday, you insanely musically talented beast.


	6. The Shrike

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: brief mention of a centipede… sort of?

Yonghoon doesn’t return to The Peerie Draatsi until nearly a week has passed. Every morning, he wonders what he might say to Hyungu, the next time they meet. He’s rarely at a total loss for words, but the more he rolls his unspoken thoughts around his tongue, and the longer he stares at the unsent texts in his drafts, the less he knows what he’s even trying to say or do.

Thursday morning, he wakes up with the full and present realization that if he continues to avoid Hyungu, Dongmyeong and Giwook will absolutely know about it and confront him at the poetry seminar. They seem to have a bloodhound’s talent for sniffing out gossip, and their main quarry is mischief. So… nothing to be done but to suck it up and head over to the café. 

Will Hyungu be weird, after their clubbing night? But nothing happened, anyway. 

Nothing happened. 

“Fuck it,” Yonghoon tells himself. He locks his flat and heads to the café.

Hyungu isn’t weird. He’s his normal wry, somewhat quiet self, greeting Yonghoon with a friendly, “Hey, hyung!” and refilling his coffee throughout the morning. No change since before clubbing night, which makes sense, since nothing happened. 

_____ 

The poetry seminar crackles with energy tonight. Yonghoon feels it in the room as soon as he steps through the door; the attendees are restless. It might be the shifting weather, the skies and winds unpredictable and tempestuous this week. 

“Evening, everyone!” Yonghoon greets the crowd. “How about we do something a little different tonight?” 

Seeing the nods and murmurs of interest, he continues. “Let’s play a little game tonight. Here’s how it’ll go…” 

Yonghoon divides the room into pairs and gives them instructions on a poetry-writing game. He played this in school, and the results are usually very funny – off-the-wall and a little chaotic, just what everyone needs at the moment. 

When it’s time to present their finished works, the pairs read aloud their poems, one at a time. The Dongmyeong-Giwook duo have nominated Giwook as the official spokesperson for their poem, and he reads aloud their creation:

>   
>  Fearless leader! Tall and sweet!  
>  We like you more than eating meat.  
>  Your legs on stilts are super cool,  
>  you must have been the best in school.  
>  You’re kind and handsome, really the best  
>  at everything, you’re truly blessed.  
>  In fact, it’s true that week after week  
>  we all come here just to hear you speak –  
>  on and on and on and on  
>  day and night, dusk to dawn –  
>  and even then, you still keep talking  
>  even as you’re asleep or walking.  
>  Okay, so maybe it gets a little tough  
>  when you have spoken long enough  
>  but still keep going, loud and clear,  
>  and oh my god, are we still here?  
>  No really, when will this evening end?  
>  This SOS text will not send!  
>  Guess we’re stuck here forever. Welp.  
>  (This poem is our cry for help.)  
>  Save us! Save us from Yonghoon!  
>  He’s awful! Terrible! A huge buffoon!  
>  Quick, before he speaks again,  
>  tell him to count backwards from ten.  
>  He’ll never manage, so easy to confuse,  
>  this is our chance, we must not lose!  
>  Quick, now’s the time to run away!  
>  We’re free forever, we shall not stay!  
>  Never ever shall we return  
>  unless it’s to roast Yonghoon with a verbal BURN.

Yonghoon laughs so hard he wheezes when he tries to breathe, his ribcage painful against his shuddering gasps. When he finally collects himself enough to speak again, he grants everyone a 5 minute break; he sure needs one himself, anyway.

He tries to focus on the other pairs’ poems, but there’s a clear winner in his affections for the evening. He makes it through the end of the seminar with his dignity only somewhat intact but his sense of humor fully fed.

That settles it: weekly movie nights with the other four Korean men on the island are happening. He needs more of these people in his life. 

One quick group chat creation later, they’ve settled on Wednesdays, along with a rotating schedule of who gets to pick the movie. 

Yonghoon’s flat is selected as the venue – _because you started it,_ comments Dongmyeong. 

_but we’ll always help tidy up after!_ adds Harin. 

Yonghoon thinks this whole Shetland adventure is turning out pretty great, all things considered.

_____ 

Harin comes over to Yonghoon’s flat early, to help with the cooking. As he begins to prepare the kimchi pancakes – and yes, the jarred kimchi tastes a little strange, but it’ll do – Yonghoon feels luckier than ever to be where he is. It’s only now that he’s beginning to feel more settled that he realizes he might have been a tiny bit homesick, this whole time. An ache he hadn’t quite let himself notice begins to unravel. Here and now, mincing garlic, speaking his native language, joking easily with someone who understands his background, he feels truly at home in his flat.

The others trickle in, and they all eat in the living room, as Yonghoon’s small kitchen table only has four chairs. Seeing plates of homemade food perched on everyone’s laps sparks a warm rush of domesticity in Yonghoon.

His soft, nearly paternal feelings evaporate the instant Dongmyeong inclines his head, eyes poorly masking some mischievous impulse, and asks Giwook, “Did you bring… you know?” 

Giwook nods. 

“Bring what?” asks Yonghoon, as Harin laughs. 

“That’s for us to know and you to find out,” says Dongmyeong, tone haughty, nose in the air. 

Harin grins. “I would say that you couldn’t possibly have planned to prank your hyung on your very first trip to his home, but you did it to me, too, so… But okay, I won’t spill all your secrets.” 

Dongmyeong’s haughty attitude increases to about an 11 out of 10, as he refuses to address the topic any further. Giwook just buries his expression in his plate of food, ribs vibrating gently with his suppressed, small laughter.

Yonghoon sighs and sits back against the sofa. Whatever it is they’re up to, he’ll find out soon enough. 

They finish eating without incident and dim the lights for their first movie.

Giwook’s chosen movie, “Six-String Samurai,” is musical, funny in an offbeat sort of way, and quirky to the point of bizarreness. Still, Dongmyeong somehow manages to fall asleep during the movie, and the others try to stifle their laughter and commentary to a volume that won’t wake him.

When the movie is over, Giwook rouses his sleeping friend with a gentle, “Myeong-ah,” brushing his hair from his forehead. 

Dongmyeong starts to stir, but his lips form an even stronger pout than usual, and he whines softly into the upholstered back of the sofa. 

“I better get him home,” says Giwook, over the wordless, murmured protests from Dongmyeong. “Gosh, you’d think we had some kind of wild night, not just a homecooked meal and a movie.” 

Harin shrugs. “Socializing can be exhausting, especially since all of us are kind of out of practice.” He pauses, rolling out a kink in his shoulder. “I think I better head out, too, if that’s alright.”

Before Yonghoon can answer, Hyungu speaks up. “You all get some rest. I’ll help wash up.” 

In moments, the flat clears out, noisy merriment whooshed out the door alongside Harin and the Trouble Twins. Yonghoon finds that he enjoys washing the dishes with Hyungu. Hyungu dips each plate carefully in the soapy water, and Yonghoon is forcibly reminded of the scent of his mild, soapy shampoo. 

Yonghoon lets the silence breathe, here in the calm kitchen, listening to the sound of gentle water and the satisfying, soft clink of clean plates stacked on the shelf. He suppresses the inner itch to fill the space with mindless chatter, knowing Hyungu wouldn’t want or need every moment filled with conversation. 

It’s Hyungu who suddenly giggles – _giggles!_ – and leans across the sink.

Yonghoon cracks up also. “What’re you laughing at, then?” 

“Oh,” Hyungu’s giggles cease, but the smile remains on his face. He scrubs the tines of a fork with a pink kitchen sponge. “Just… sometimes I remember that Dongmyeong was originally gong to come here alone. The thought of him without Giwook, trying to pass himself off as some studious loner, is just… I dunno. It was funny to me, is all. Maybe I’m just tired.” 

“No, no,” Yonghoon says, words tumbling in a rush. “It _is_ funny.” He stops to think about it. “It had just never occurred to me to think of him here alone, I guess. Well, that might be because Harin told me about the Trouble Twins even before I met them. They’re a great little unit. Twins, for sure.” 

Hyungu gives Yonghoon a curious look, opens his mouth to say something – when Yonghoon looks behind Hyungu’s shoulder and screams. 

Hyungu yelps and ducks, then looks behind himself. _“Whoa,_ hyung, warn a guy! It’s just a bug!” 

“Just a bug?!” Yonghoon is unamused by the giant centipede on the wall. 

Hyungu sighs, a fond but weary sigh, and plucks the peel-and-stick fake centipede off the wall. 

It clicks. _Trouble._

Yonghoon is too startled to be angry and hears his own high, shrill laugh. “God, speak of the devil. Or devils, I guess. Has that been there this whole time?!” He hears the shake in his own voice. Makes sense, given the mile a minute that his heart is still racing.

Hyungu shrugs. “Well, probably since they put it up there, yeah.” He tosses the centipede sticker in the trash and turns to look at Yonghoon. “You didn’t notice it?”

_I was only looking at you._

“I… was busy drying the dishes, I guess.” It sounds like a lame excuse. It _is_ a lame excuse. 

But Hyungu just shakes his head, as if in disbelief, and his mouth quirks just slightly, a phantom almost-smile. 

They finish the dishes in relative silence. Hyungu puts his shoes back on, shrugs his jacket onto his shoulders, and turns to leave.

“Hey, Hyungu?” Yonghoon says, without thinking. 

“Yeah?” Hyungu pauses in the doorway, rakes a hand through his hair. 

“Ummm,” Yonghoon hesitates. _I just wanted to make eye contact with you again. I just wanted you to talk to me again. I just wanted to not be alone, not when you’re here, smelling clean and soft and giggling over the dish water._

“Never mind, sorry. I’ve already forgotten.” He laughs, this time a little shallow, a little tinny. “Get home safely. Thank you again for helping wash up.” 

“Any time,” says Hyungu, and it’s casual – a politeness, nothing more – but Yonghoon’s heart soars. Any time, out of several times. Plural times. Many times? _Any_ time. 

_____ 

The weeks pass in an increasingly settled, domestic way. Yonghoon makes friends with more of the locals, learning their quirks and traditions ever so slowly, fascinated by these rugged people living on these storm-blown islands, finding comfort wherever and however they can.

And when Yonghoon thinks about it, he too feels comfortable. For one thing, the days start to become a tiny bit shorter, and combined with some grade-A blackout curtains, Yonghoon is sleeping better than he has in years. The fresh, ocean air probably helps, as does the regular socializing and increasing sense of community – of belonging.

Despite Yonghoon’s earlier suggestion that he and Hyungu start cooking together, the five of them quickly fall into a Wednesday night pattern wherein Harin helps cook dinner, the Trouble Twins find some way to get out of chores, and Hyungu helps Yonghoon wash up afterward. 

Nobody begrudges the youngest two their break from household duties. “Do we all just have a really soft spot for our maknaes?” asks Yonghoon, one night. 

Harin smiles at him – a soft, tilting grin. “We’d be less than human if we didn’t.”

They learn that Dongmyeong is the finickiest eater in their group and Hyungu the best at movie analysis. Giwook’s selections are always the strangest, and Harin is most fond of loud, crashing action movies.

Yonghoon’s not one hundred percent sure where he fits into this new posse, what exactly he contributes, but still: it feels like home.

Sometimes he and Hyungu don’t speak at all as they clean up the dinner debris. Sometimes they chat about the movie they just watched, laughing again over favorite lines or sharing digs at parts they didn’t like. 

And then some nights… 

“Pass me the dish towel,” says Yonghoon. “No, the other one! The one on the – right, exactly. Thank you.” He grins and decides to tease Hyungu a bit. “You should just automatically know what I mean by now. Haven’t I made any impression on you whatsoever?” 

Hyungu stops what he’s doing, the wet plate he’s holding slowly dripping over the sink, a trail of frothy bubbles clinging to its lower edge. 

Yonghoon’s breath catches. _What?_ What is Hyungu looking at him like that for? 

“I once read this book,” says Hyungu, turning his attention back to the plate in his hand. “It was a sci-fi book, probably nothing you’ve read…” He hesitates, flicks his gaze over at Yonghoon. 

“I read some,” says Yonghoon, amused to be doubted. Usually people assume that poets do nothing _but_ read. 

“Sure, but sci-fi? Anyway, it’s a book called _Hyperion._ ” Hyungu pauses again, a little more deliberately this time, like a challenge. 

Yonghoon laughs lightly. “No, you’re right, I haven’t read it. Sorry, do continue.”

“Okay, so, in the book – which actually revolves around a poet, now that I think about it…? But anyway, so in _Hyperion_ , there’s this crazy…. thing. Like a monster or something, just… a really frightening apparition. It’s called a shrike, and it collects… people.” Hyungu exhales sharply and furrows his brow. “Man, I’m doing a horrible job of explaining this.” He scrubs at a spot on the plate that looks clean already, to Yonghoon’s eyes. 

“I’m with you,” says Yonghoon, voice soft and low. “Shrike, scary monster. Collects people.” 

Hyungu exhales again, smoothing his brow, as though trying to start over. “Right. Well, I don’t want to spoil it for you, since I actually think you’d love the book, even if you’re not into sci-fi. But the shrike is based on a real bird called a shrike – a bird that collects prey animals and displays them on fences and stuff. It impales its prey… ugh, sorry, this sounds so terrible, but.. yeah, so it impales its prey almost like it’s displaying artwork. And the book monster wanted fine prey, special prey, special humans.” 

Yonghoon nods, although Hyungu still isn’t looking at him. 

“And so… um.” Hyungu finally stops working on the plate in his hands, handing it over to Yonghoon for drying. His eyes stay over the sink, though his hands are empty. “The shrike collects special people, I guess. And all I’m trying to say is that you would be a prime candidate for this shrike. He would come for you first.” 

Yonghoon dries the plate, careful not to let it slip from his hands. He sets the plate on top of the stack and turns to look at Hyungu. 

They look at each other for several seconds, as the slightest hint of pink creeps upward past Hyungu’s collar. 

“Thank you,” Yonghoon finally says. 

Hyungu shrugs, breaks eye contact. “They’ve probably got a copy at the library here, if you wanted to read a physical copy. Or they can get one in for you. It’s a small library, but the people are really nice.” 

Yonghoon smiles, feels his face relax, though his heart is in his throat. “I appreciate that.” 

He walks Hyungu to the door, watching as he puts on his shoes and jacket, and – for the first time since their very first Wednesday movie night – says, “Hey, Hyungu!” without knowing why or how to follow it up. 

“Mmm?” Hyungu quirks an eyebrow at him. 

“What…” Yonghoon scrambles for something to say. “What does ‘draatsi’ mean?” 

Hyungu grins, then walks out of the door and onto the front porch. “Otter. It’s Sheltie dialect for ‘otter.’” 

Yonghoon leans one hand against the doorframe. “I didn’t even realize they had otters here! They must, right? If there’s a special Shetland dialect word for them?” 

Hyungu’s eyes light up. “Oh, yeah! We sure do – we have otters! Not as many as the seals, of course, but they’re here.” 

Something about hearing Hyungu refer to Shetland as “we” makes Yonghoon realize he’d just referred to the island and its inhabitants as “they,” instead. 

But Hyungu doesn’t seem to have noticed the discrepancy and is enthusiastically talking about the otters. “ – so they’re really hard to spot, hyung, many people live here for years and never see one. But if you do see one, maybe it’s like, a sign of good luck? Or just a confirmation that you can be quiet and patient, given how shy they are.” 

“Have you ever seen one?” 

Hyungu shakes his head but looks no less delighted. “If it happens, it happens. But, hyung, going back to what you said about the dialect… you realize there are lots of old Norse words in Shetland, whether or not they’re relevant to daily life? It’s basically English-speaking Scandinavia, here.” 

Yonghoon does know, knows this very clearly – has read an absolute truckload about it – but can’t bring himself to cut off the conversation by mentioning his knowledge on the topic. “I hadn’t thought about it that way, exactly, but that totally makes sense.” 

He and Hyungu have another full conversation about it, and Yonghoon is glad for it – not just because it’s another 15 minutes he gets to spend in the company of his blond crush, but also because Hyungu legitimately knows things about the area and its history that are new to Yonghoon. He feels a flash of guilt that he initially dismissed Hyungu’s ability to educate him on the topic. 

There’s a break in the conversation, and Yonghoon clears his throat. “Hyungu-yah…” 

Hyungu looks at him, swaying back on his heels a bit, then catches himself before he falls down the front steps. 

“If I ever get too cocky or patronizing, will you let me know?” Before Hyungu can respond, he adds, “You’re not obligated to or anything; I should do a better job of being self-aware. But, um, if you ever want to… Well, we’re not in Korea anymore. Please don’t feel like you have to tread on eggshells around me, just because I’m older. You can tell me if I’m being out of line, okay?” 

For a second, it looks like Hyungu might wave this off. But then he bites his lip before saying, “Sure thing. Yeah.” He looks upward for a second, though there’s nothing in the gray skies above him, and swallows. “But maybe I could also do a better job of telling you when you’re being wonderful, too.” He looks back down at the ground, only glancing at Yonghoon long enough to give him a cursory nod goodbye, then turns to go.

And Yonghoon’s heart feels like it’s been collected, impaled by a shrike, and displayed on a fence for everyone to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Raise your hand if you too are freaking out about _MEMORY : illusion!_


End file.
